


under pressure (precious things can break)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e21 Ragtag, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hydra Grant Ward, POV Female Character, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because she doesn't want to go doesn't mean she wants to be left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	under pressure (precious things can break)

**Author's Note:**

> Quick notes, as I'm trying to break myself out of the habit of rambling on forever in these things. This is based off a prompt from anonymous, which will be listed in the end notes as it kind of gives the whole plot away. Title is from "Please Don't Say You Love Me" by Gabrielle Aplin, and I'm actually fairly certain I once got a prompt for that, too. So--ta-da!
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review.

Jemma isn’t surprised to be left behind while the others go to search out information on Cybertek, but she’s not happy, either.

It’s not that she particularly wants to accompany them. Even if she weren’t in such a state that she’d be more of a hindrance than a help, she really can’t bring herself to care about Cybertek. Or about Centipede, or HYDRA, or anything at all. There’s a strange apathy which has been growing alongside the numbness of her grief, and in the face of it, very few things can move her.

But just because she doesn’t want to go doesn’t mean she wants to be left behind.

It’s nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the lack of distraction. With no orders to follow and no mysteries to solve, she’s left with nothing but her thoughts. And she can’t let herself think right now, for fear that her numbness will fade.

The cold of the Canadian winter sunk into her very bones as they left Providence, and the relative heat in Los Angeles hasn’t been enough to counter it. She’s grateful for it—not only that, she fears its loss.

She knows what comes once numbness is gone, and she’s not ready to face it.

Still, there’s no argument she can offer to convince Coulson to bring her along on the mission. Everyone _knows_ what sort of state she’s in and, furthermore, they know exactly _why_. Coulson will not be moved to change his mind; he means to be kind, she knows, when he tells her to get some rest.

“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” he promises, and off they go.

The walls of the motel room begin to close in on her after only five minutes, and so—for lack of anywhere else—she flees outside. She curls up in one of the poolside lounge chairs and stares at the water, trying not to think.

It’s strangely effective. She’s never been any good at not thinking, but today it’s easy. She sinks into an odd sort of meditation, transfixed by the gentle lap of water against the edge of the pool, and, for once, her mind is completely blank.

She spends hours sitting there, free of thought and emotion. She’s vaguely aware of the passage of time—of the shifting of shadows as the sun moves across the sky and a growing stiffness in her limbs as she remains motionless—but it’s not enough to break her concentration.

In the end, it’s the creak of the gate opening that pulls her out of her odd daze. She looks away from the pool, expecting it to be the others returning—they are, after all, the only guests staying at the motel.

Instead, it’s Grant.

“Hi, Jemma,” he says, lightly, as he lets the gate swing closed behind him. “Long time no see.”

She stares at him, trying to summon up the anger and betrayal that so overwhelmed her at Providence, when she first realized the truth of him, but it won’t come. There’s a flicker of fear (certainly a reasonable response, considering his recent actions) but only for a fraction of a second.

Nothing else can last in the face of the numbness that fills her.

In a way, seeing him is almost a relief. He might be a traitor, but at least he’s alive. She has lost him—and perhaps, as Coulson has told her, she never really had him—but it’s entirely by his choice. He won’t be stolen away from her.

Not like…

“Hello, Grant,” she says quietly. He smirks.

It’s an expression she’s never seen on him before, and she has the oddly detached thought that it suits him. It fits well with the sharp angles of his face.

“So,” he says, leaning back against the fence. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“Waiting,” she says.

“For what?”

She shrugs, sliding off the lounge chair to stand. Now that she’s been pulled out of her strange trance, she’s uncomfortably aware of the stiffness in her limbs. Being on her feet helps a little.

“For the others,” she says, and gestures vaguely in the direction of the motel. “They’re not here.”

“Obviously not,” he agrees, giving her a searching look. She thinks perhaps he’s expecting some sort of reaction to his presence—tears or accusations or recriminations—but she has nothing.

He’s not her husband, not really. She’s been told hundreds of times over the past few days that her husband never existed. But he looks like him—like the comfort she’s been longing for. Even had she any tears (and she doesn’t; her numbness shelters her from them), she wouldn’t offer them to him. She’s far more likely to throw herself at him—to hold on and not let go, pretend that all of this has been a bad dream.

She wonders if he would allow it.

“And Coulson left you alone?” he asks eventually, apparently giving up on waiting for her to speak. His expression is thoughtful. “Where’s Fitz?”

Even the sound of his name is painful. Jemma flinches.

“Jemma,” he says softly, and closes the distance between them to take her by the shoulders. “What happened?”

“Maria Hill,” she says—would like to snarl, but there is no room for anger in her. “She led Talbot and his men straight to us. One of them—while we were escaping—one of them…”

She can’t say it. She’s physically incapable of saying _one of them shot Fitz_ , let alone the more straight-forward _Fitz is dead_.

The attempt, however, fractures her numbness. For the first time since Trip dragged her, screaming and crying, out of Providence, tears sting at her eyes. She presses her lips together and looks away.

“Oh, Jem,” Grant says, soft and pained, and draws her into a hug. “I’m so sorry.”

Jemma has received dozens of hugs and condolences over the last few days. From Skye, from Trip, from Coulson—even from May, once. She’s barely gone more than two hours at a time without receiving some form of sympathy from someone.

Every moment of it grated terribly against her nerves.

She knows they meant well. Of course they did. But they were the wrong words spoken by the wrong voices, hugs that lasted too long or ended too soon, arms that held her too gently or too tight. There were only two people she wanted comfort from, and both were out of reach—one stolen from her and one gone by his own choosing.

Yet here Grant is. One of the hugs she’s been needing, one of the voices she’s longed for. It’s the last straw; the numbness which has sheltered her shatters entirely, and the grief she’s been hiding from finally overwhelms her.

She sinks into his embrace and her tears spill over, and he doesn’t wince or panic or try to shush her. He rubs her back and kisses her hair and tells her that he’s got her, that he’s sorry—that he loves her.

She doesn’t know if that’s true. She doesn’t think she cares.

She clings to him as she sobs. His arms and his scent and his _voice_ are all as familiar to her as her own hands. He feels like home.

She decides she doesn’t care what he’s done. She doesn’t care that he killed an innocent man—multiple innocent men, most likely—or that he kidnapped Skye. She doesn’t care that he betrayed SHIELD or that he’s involved with the Centipede project, which has ended and ruined so many lives.

Two weeks ago, she would have said that everyone on the Bus was like family to her. But she has been harshly reminded of the true definition of _family_ , and now that she’s lost…what she’s lost, only the man holding her qualifies.

Even if it was a lie. Even if he’s really a stranger. He’s all she has.

She doesn’t know how long she spends crying into Grant’s shirt. At some point, she hears someone else enter the pool area, hears Grant say something to whomever it is in some foreign language—exhausted and heartsick, all she can really be bothered to determine is _not English_ —and then hears the gate creak as they leave again. She can’t find it in herself to be curious.

However long it takes, by the time her tears slow and then stop, her head is pounding terribly. She doesn’t feel any better. The tears have not been cathartic.

But she doesn’t feel any worse, either, and that’s certainly new.

“Okay?” Grant asks gently, leaning back slightly to look at her.

She swipes at her eyes and doesn’t answer. She’s not okay. She’s the furthest thing from it.

“Of course not,” he says. “Stupid question.” He lets go of her, but only long enough to cup her face in his hands and kiss her gently. “I’m sorry, Jem.”

She wraps her hands around his wrists and closes her eyes, letting the steady beat of his pulse beneath her fingers chase away the last of her tears. He’s alive. He’s a traitor, but he’s alive.

Part of her is screaming that she should shove him away—that she shouldn’t let him touch her at all, let alone kiss her—and that he’s a murderer and can’t be trusted.

But it’s a very small part, and it’s easy to ignore.

“Here’s a better question,” he says, and she opens her eyes to find that his have darkened. “What happened to Hill?”

“Nothing,” she says, and reluctantly lets his wrists slip from her grasp as he lets go and steps back.

“Nothing?” he echoes, incredulous. “She got Fitz killed—” Jemma flinches. “—and nothing happened to her?”

“Nothing,” she confirms, and is almost relieved to see the anger on his face. When Hill walked away with no consequences, the others were shocked and offended and horrified. But none of them were angry—enraged—the way Jemma would have liked. The way _she_ would be, were she not so numb.

Of course she can count on Grant to feel her anger for her.

“She apologized,” she says, and watches him scowl. “Then she helped us save Skye,” (she leaves the _from you_ unspoken), “and left. Back to her new job at Stark Industries.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Jem. If I’d known what she did I would’ve crossed her off while I had the chance.”

Intellectually, she knows that the words should shock and horrify her—that they _would_ have, not a week ago. Once again, however, she can’t bring herself to care.

“Nothing to say to that?” Grant asks.

She looks away, but only for a moment; he cups her jaw with a gentle hand and forces her to look at him again.

“Come on, Jem,” he murmurs, tilting her face up so he can search her eyes. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I wish you had.” It comes rushing out before she can stop it, and though she tries to leave it there, she can’t. “I wish you’d shot the jump jet right off the runway. Even though it would’ve killed Trip as well, even though he doesn’t deserve it—I wish you had. I wish she were dead.”

He grins, sudden and sharp, and there’s a touch of triumph to it that she knows should terrify her. But the kiss he leans down to give her is sweet, and it feels like comfort.

“That can be arranged,” he says, hand falling from her jaw to grip her by the shoulder. “It might take some time, but I can make it happen. Would you like that?”

It takes her a moment to comprehend the question. Her mind is lingering on his grip, on the difference in the way he’s touching her today—not harshly, precisely, just…slightly more firmly than usual. In the past, Grant has always touched and held her very gently—delicately, even, as though she were made of spun glass.

Before, he touched her like she was something precious. Today…he’s different. His touch is possessive, rather than protective.

After days spent adrift, it feels like an anchor. For the first time since Providence, she’s held firmly in the moment.

She thinks she likes it.

But would she like for Grant to cross Hill off? “I…”

He raises his eyebrows, prompting, and she hesitates. Maybe that’s the wrong question.

A better question would be, would _Fitz_ like for Grant to cross Hill off? Would he approve of her engaging the enemy—and he’s clearly the enemy, regardless of Fitz’s insistence that he must be being controlled somehow; he’s worlds away from the man he usually is—in order to get revenge on his behalf?

She thinks not.

But before she can decline Grant’s offer, the last she saw of Fitz appears in her mind, unbidden. She thinks of sightless eyes and blood soaking through the knees of her jeans, Trip dragging her away while she screamed, and her mind is made up for her.

Fitz is gone. He left her alone. He doesn’t get a say in what form of revenge she takes against the people who stole him from her.

“Yes,” she admits, quietly. Her voice cracks, and perhaps a tiny part of it is an echo of the shame she should feel, but most of it is remembering the way she had to scrub for ages to get Fitz’s blood off of her hands. “I would very much like for you to kill her.”

“Done,” he says, and kisses her again.

This time it’s less sweet and more intent. _Much_ more. She thinks perhaps it should scare her, because there’s an edge to it she’s never felt before, from him.

But even though it’s not sweet, it still feels like comfort. She isn’t scared.

She’s warm. The ice Providence left in her bones is finally starting to thaw, but she finds she’s not afraid of this—of what comes next—either. Grant has one hand on her shoulder and one hand in her hair, and as he kisses her once—twice—more his mouth is so _familiar_ against hers.

It’s impossible to be afraid.

She sways towards him as he finally pulls away, and the little voice that scolded her earlier for kissing him is even quieter now.

“Anyone else?” he asks, his hand carding through her hair. He watches her face carefully as he offers, “Coulson?”

She flinches at the thought, and Grant nods to himself.

“Not Coulson, then,” he says. “Just Hill?”

“Talbot,” she says, surprising herself. But, once she thinks about it—considers his disdain for them, his refusal to listen when they attempted to bargain with him, and his complete lack of remorse—it’s…not a pleasant thought, necessarily, but a good one. It seems right. Fitz is dead due to Hill’s betrayal and Talbot’s orders. It’s only proper that they die, too. So she repeats, “Talbot. Please.”

“My pleasure,” he says.

He searches her eyes for a long moment, then draws her into a hug, one arm solid around her and the other hand cradling her head against his chest. She closes her eyes, focusing on the steady thump of his heart beneath her ear.

“It might take a while,” he adds. “We’ve got a lot of irons in the fire right now. But I’ll kill them for you, Jemma. I promise.”

“Thank you,” she says. She can feel him shifting to look down at her, but she keeps her eyes closed and her ear against his chest. She hasn’t slept in days—since before Portland—and as her numbness thaws, her exhaustion seems to catch up with her all at once.

She thinks she could fall asleep right here, safe in Grant’s arms and with the reassuring beat of his heart beneath her ear.

Unfortunately, it’s not to be. The sudden ring of a mobile phone breaks the peaceful silence between them, and Grant tenses. His grip on her tightens for a moment and then, with a sigh, he eases away.

“That’s my cue,” he says, taking a few steps backwards. “Time to go.”

“What?” she asks, panic seizing her by the throat. “No!”

“Sorry, Jem,” he says. “But if you don’t want me killing Coulson, I can’t be here when he gets back.”

She doesn’t want him to kill Coulson. Coulson has not been what she’s needed, but he’s tried to be. Every mistake he’s made was meant well. He doesn’t deserve death.

But she doesn’t want Grant to leave, either.

He’s watching her face, and whatever he sees makes him smile. “You could come with me.”

“What?”

“Come with me,” he repeats.

“No,” she says, but it’s an automatic refusal—the work of the tiny, almost-gone voice which keeps reminding her of everything he’s done and how wrong it is to take comfort in him. “I—no.”

“Why not?” he asks reasonably. “You can’t tell me there’s anything left for you in SHIELD. There’s barely a SHIELD left.”

“You’re HYDRA,” she says. Even to her own ears, it sounds weak, and the smile he gives her is almost pitying.

“I think we both know that doesn’t matter anymore,” he says. “Does it?”

It’s true that she’s already decided not to care about that—that, if she did care, she couldn’t possibly have cried all over him and kissed him and asked him to kill for her. She shakes her head.

“What’s really holding you back, Jemma?” he asks, and reaches out to tug her closer.

For a moment, she honestly doesn’t know. Then she looks down at his hand—his left hand—wrapped around her wrist, and it strikes her. She lifts her other hand and brushes it gently over his empty ring finger.

“You don’t love me,” she says. She thought earlier that she wasn’t certain she cared about that; it would appear that she does. “You’re not the man I married.”

“No?” he asks quietly, and she raises her eyes to meet his.

“No,” she confirms, sadly. “The man I married never existed.”

Grant hums thoughtfully.

“You’re right,” he admits, releasing her wrist to take her by the hand instead. “He didn’t. You married a cover.” He cups her cheek with his other hand, sweeping his thumb along the dark circles she knows shadow her eyes. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, Jemma.”

She swallows.

“My cover fell in love with you first,” he says. “But the real me loves you, too. Just as much as he did, if not more.”

She searches his face. There’s no sign of a lie—but, of course, there wouldn’t be. _Everything_ was a lie, and there was never any sign of it at all. He could be completely honest or lying through his teeth right now. There’s no way to be sure.

Does it matter?

It does.

But not at much as it should.

He’s right. There’s nothing left for her in SHIELD. And she’d rather live a lie with him than be alone.

If Fitz were alive, it would be different. But Fitz is dead and Grant is all she has left.

“Come with me,” he says again. He strokes some of her hair away from her face, and he looks so sincere. “Come with me, and I’ll never leave you again. I promise.”

He’s not wearing his wedding ring, but she’s wearing hers. She only took it off for a few hours, when she first realized what he’d done. Afterwards—after Providence—after she washed Fitz’s blood off of her hands—she put it back on.

After losing Fitz, she needed something to hold on to. She chose her wedding ring—a symbol of a marriage that she _knew_ was a lie.

All things considered, she supposes she made her mind up then—long before this offer.

“All right,” she says. It’s a surrender, but it doesn’t feel like one. “I’ll come with you.”

“Thank you,” Grant says, and gives her a quick, sweet kiss. Then he steps back, his hand falling away from her face. His other stays firmly entwined with hers as he jerks his chin towards the motel. “Anything you need from in there?”

She thinks of the clothes and toiletries hastily purchased from Target after Skye’s rescue and shakes her head.

“You have the Bus,” she reminds him. He grins. “All of my things are there.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “Then let’s go.”

The little voice that scolded her for accepting his comfort is silent as she follows him to the SUV waiting in the car park.

She doesn’t know why that makes her want to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous asked: "I'd really like to see a Ragtag AU where Ward and Simmons are in an est. relationship and she decides to join up with Centipede/hydra/whoever because her desire to be with him outweighs her morals."
> 
> The only way I could think to make that happen was to break her first, and the best way to break her was to kill Fitz! Sorry, Fitz!


End file.
